There arrives a time in every man’s life when he becomes a man. I will have pictures of this moment, because I have a photographic memory. There are many graphics inside of these photos; this is because it makes sense.

“Rosalie Weasley!” I cry. “I have summoned you to a duel!”

“That’s not my name,” she says. “My name is Molly.”

I sniff at her, several times. “That is the worst name I have ever heard.” I open my mouth wider to permit louder sounds to emit through my pearly lips, freshly chapped with stick. “Rosalie Weasley!” I cry again, although I am not crying. There is no physical wetness anywhere near my glorious cheeks or eyes or other organs that were assigned to my face during birth. Crying is also symbolism of being louder than other people. I know this because I do it often, in many forms. Most of them involving condensation inside of my eyelashes.

“Her name is Rose,” Molly counters with a tongue of figurative barbed wire. I count many barbs, but only one wire. This is usually the way of the Weasley. “And your name is awful, so you really can’t talk.”

“It was a typo!” I glean. She cannot see me gleaning, but I am doing it anyway. I glean information as I go all of the time. I learned about crosswalks once when I was crossing and also walking and that is your proof. “I was meant to be Spartacus!” I shield my eyes, staring at my eyelids in vain and torture. “Inside of me, there will always be a tiny Spartacus wanting to come out. It asks my mother, but she resists.” My hands drop to my sides. I wonder what I should do with them now that they are just sitting there and not holding anything. They are lonely hands.

My hands! Alas, the poor finger-laden sticks with skin on them! They are lonely and I must fetch companions for their service at once. Snap, snap. This is dire.

“Give me something to hold!” I fly to Molly Weasley without actually flying because that is impossible so far. Her eyes are very large, like the bottoms of glasses of pumpkin juice. I am suddenly thirsty. “My hands are wont to be unrestrained in their wonder of love! This is future Spartacus speaking, and he tells me I require a woman for pro-recreational purposes!” My peers are looking at me and I am enjoying it immensely. If I possessed sideburns, burning both sides of my face with frivolous golden stubble, it would make this scenery all the more grand. So grand, in a matter of speaking, that it is grandiose.

“Peers!” Molly shouts. “Why must you resist my fortitude of destiny? I require my golden stubble at once! And also a golden dog to sit upon! I wish to ride around on its hide of liquid corn fur and be at one with the populace of Hogwarts, while also being above them in rank.”

I stop and examine her at length, at many lengths and most of them invisible and between us. It was not the Weasley who had spoken. It was I. Scorindo. “You have a manly voice,” I declare wisely, with the movements of mountains. “But you are not a man at all! You must only believe!”

I know this to be true because she does not have flaxen wonders of stubble hiding beneath her skin. If she purchased facial hair from a source that sold it to young females, it would most likely match her hair. Her hair is the color of old bricks covered in mud. Abandoned bricks, in fact. The kind you might stomp on if you got too close to it because you would assume that worms were squirming around underneath. I am master of garden fleas, and I must assassinate any and all insects that dare to defile my bricks-on-mud.

And I shan’t be having any worms in my facial hair, either!

I point at her. “I feel threatened by you! You have got to go!”

Suddenly another Weasley strikes with her mighty flames of god-awful hair. I pity her. But I am also a vixen, so I vilify her. “Do not enter near me,” I say with the foreboding of a nation on the brink of war. “I cannot commit to this tale of sword fighting. My sword has been left behind me. I must ask my father to send it along in the post. It will take three days at the longest.”

“I am Rose Weasley,” she growls, and a volcano in Fiji roars violently with smoke (but not mirrors). Her hair blows in a marvelous wind and lightning flashes all around. I am impressed deeply; so deeply, that I have fallen way past the imp which presses me so. My perforated vision sees many tiny lights and I wonder conscience-ly if someone is snapping photographs with a photograph contraption. I pose, just in case. My arms are now bent at the elbows, hands behind my head. I lift one dainty leg in the air, pointing my toes downward like so.

You are imagining this. You are painting a mental picture and you will frame it and keep it always. This is due to the notion of truth that you are wooed. You have been wooed by me for all time, but you didn’t realize it until you realized it, which is just now. And also in the future, because I am omnipresent (this means I take precedence in many lands of the near and far, with im-mutiny to time and space).

“Scorpius Malfoy, I am Rose Weasley and I have come hither from the Highlands of Dormax to duel you.” She whips her wand professionally like a lasso of rage and blue things begin to happen in front of my face. They are tiny balls of light. I want to keep them inside a jar and tighten the lid to see if they can live without air.

“Then you must build me a sword!” I snap my fingers. “Ask your cousin the mothball to gather the elves for my usage.”

An elf manifestos suddenly in the patch of air that was previously un-patched by citizens, and she says,

There is chocolate underneath my fingernails. I pause to lick them. When I am finished, I am astonished to find that the elf had continued talking.

“– for you, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I refuse to acknowledge you,” I say, “because I did not hear your words of sagery heretofore.” I point at the window. “Flee! Be gone! Be so far gone that by the by you will become bygones!” I clap my hands. It is loud, commanding authority and attention. Both of them, simultaneously.

“I shall be in need of a broom.”

A broom is tossed at me. The yellow part that touches floors hit my head. I wonder what I would look like with yellow broom bits for hair. Tears glisten in my balls of eyes. That would be very sad. The texture of these cleaning devices is woe. “I will not allow this to happen ever!” I bellow, pointing the pointy end of the broom at my foe. “I will ruin you, Weasley!”

She raises an eyebrow, sneering in a sneery way. So sneery that she was, in fact, still sneering even after she stopped. This is because my photographical memory recorded it and was playing it over and over like a lovely song. Except it wasn’t lovely at all. It was blasphemy! She is attempting to seduce me again! “You're going to duel me with a broom?”

One of the lightning bolts strikes my head. It ignites my prowess of word-sorcery. I smile cheekily at her. “Let’s just say I will use it to…” I stop speaking, waiting for dramatic effect. I forget to keep breathing. This happens often. I speak again because my face is blue and there are tendons in my neck that stick out quite far. “Wipe the floor with you.”

She is shocked by my symmetry, and tries not to show it. What is symmetrical, you may inquestion? Why, it is the way that my attractive presence and my brain presence line up like dominoes. Perfectly, in other many words.

“Crushio!” I hark, jabbing at her hair with my broom of justice. It is vigilante justice. My father would love me, as everyone loves me. He would love me even more than I love me, and just as I love me. Myself. “Crushio!” I say again for emphatic-cess. “There is now drama stirring in the form of curses and light, and it is coming toward you!” I motioned toward the invisible fury that was sure to crush her as my spell indicted. “It is the hammer of thorn!”

There is much slow-motion, but Rose Weasley does not tip over to lie down in the hallway for all eternal time. She does not look as white as a tissue. I am currently wondering how her hair is waving around like jellyfish tentacles when we’re standing in the Charms corridor and there are no winds. I panic, glancing around histrionically in the present tense, looking for Frieda Jordan. How dare she service other people’s hair with the blowing of the winds!

“Weasley,” I interrogate. She is seeing my broad shoulders and dimples. My manliness overwhelms her like a lumberjack removing his hat. Also my teeth. I show them to her and we are both experiencing revelation. “I will grant you three wishes.”

“Wish number one,” she replies immediately. “Go die in a hole.”

I graze a hand through my halo of curls, fluttering my eyelashes with voodoo supremacy. “You fight me, O Red One, but you want me. This is factual.”

Several students snickered. “Oh, sure.” She has sarcasm inside her mouth. It gets all over her words. I should tell her about this, because it is misleading. We both know in our essences of nature that she is mine, and my soul belongs to her. Except both of our souls belong to us. And also my mother. “Everyone goes to sleep at night dreaming of you, Malfoy.”

I am thoroughly fused with con. In retrospect, this means that I am confused. “That is my sir’s name! Not my first name. Why must you refer to me by so?” I stroke my chin, where my stubble would be if I could achieve the mysterious stubble that is not growing there. It is as smooth as jam instead, except without lumps of fruit. Or preservatives. I put preservatives on my skin once as a mosque and it dried me out. Dry complexions fill me with a monsoon of emotion. “Your wishes are to be with me. All of your wishes. Every single one of them, and also the ones that your parents wish for you.”

I flap my arms, waving the broom around my head. Everyone assumes that the broom weighs more than I do, and that my strength is lifting it and propelling it to go ZOOM ZOOM. They are wrong but they do not know this. I wink at them with both eyes, so as to double the charm. “Give me your wishes, Weasley! I will see what I can do! We will plunder the hills with our kissing-of-the-lips. This is destiny.”

“Stupefy!” she says very loudly in an outdoor voice. I almost remind her that we are indoors, but then I remember that she has just said a word that means bad things and shiny lights.

“I defy you, Stupefy!” I have rejected her spell. I hold out my hand in defiance. Utter defiance. My broom is in my other hand like a wizard’s staff, and I feel the power flooding me with energy of a very old man who has just passed all of his old-person powers into my young and attractive body. I am feeling such confusion. I thought I was perfect, but this new pearl of wisdom teeth informs me that I was not. But now I am, of course. OMNI-IMPOTENCE IS SUCH BURDENOUS WOE!

I have shouted this out loud!

I am on the floor!

There is a broom on my face! I see shiny lights happening again and I am casted down in emotion. I must be inside of a jar, this is the only explanation. Mrs. Norris arrives much too late. She was supposed to be my dueling second. I yell at her with our mind-speak that she is late. I will never entertain fantasies of feeding her tuna from my spoon ever again.